


Newborn whoopsie

by Wrathofscribbles



Category: Twilight Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21980284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: They knew the risks, and they turned my anyway.  Why is this such a surprise?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Newborn whoopsie

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer that all recognisable characters and content from Twilight are property of Stephanie Meyer.** I'm just playing in a fanfiction sandbox
> 
> What if perfect control is a pretty rare concept with newborn vampires?

It isn't so much that I'd been blind to the truth -

_We're monsters, Bella. Dead and unchanging. Unnatural. What soul we have left we doom the day we open our eyes to this life! We're **killers**._

\- it's just that... I'd seen the truth differently. I'd _believed_ it to be different. And who can blame me? They said one thing and acted another! Are monsters capable of love? Can they maintain family units? Deny their very "nature"? Can they show patience and kindess and caring to a weak link and thorn in their side?

They'd shown me a completely different version of their "monstrous" lives and I, naive, poor little human that I'd been, had believed it the truth.

And so now, here I am, with blood in my belly and down this silly dress Alice thought to stick me in, and between my teeth, taunting me with every swallow. Or maybe I'm taunting myself, now. I don't really _need_ to swallow much anymore, do I?

It's on my fingers, too, and under my nails and on my palms from where I gripped too hard and the skin just... split. Like overripe fruit.

Welcome to the world of vampires, Bella, you can kill someone with a touch!

I should feel regret for the death, I know, and I do! Part of me, anyway. Another part of my brain regrets the _mess_ , because while I can lick my hands clean (as I'm doing now), I don't much fancy the idea of trying the same on the dress and getting fibres stuck to my tongue. And then _another_ part of my brain is busy filing away the details of the room, and the escape routes, and the distance to the window (four strides, or two if I run), and where _they_ are, and the expression on Edward's face, frozen just like his body is.

He looks like he's having a Bad Day. I'm... not. I feel _great_. Like I could climb a mountain and swim to Britain and headbutt an ox and come away from it unscathed and win a wrestling match with a bear, or _ten_ bears. So much _energy_ and _time_ and I can do with either what I please now.

There's a little voice in my head (my conscience, or the fake-Edward sticking his nose in my business whenever I do something reckless or stupid?) wailing horror and regret for - the grand total of seven minutes thirty-two seconds I've been _"awake"_. Did I think I'd have Carlisle's control straight off the bat? I did, didn't I? I can... almost remember that. Or a conversation about it, with Jasper, maybe? He'd... warned me about what to expect? The thirst, the confusion, the thoughts firing a million miles a minute. He'd warned me control wouldn't be easy... I think. Memories are slippery things, like the fish Charlie held up in his bare hands for photos, already blurry and unfocused behind the smoke of burning alive.

I was a fool to think I'd be stronger than this - as if it'd be _possible_ to be _more_ of anything. But then, I guess humans in general are fools. Why else would someone agree to deliver - something - so far into the woods? It's only just the start of dozens of horror movies, right, no big deal?

Still, a life lost is a life lost, and I can... feel bad about that. Sort of. I should probably learn the name to go with the face and the screams. The least I can do. Did he have family? Should I send something?

_Your Dad was delicious, by the way. Sorry about the mess I left him in, but here's some flowers for his grave and your troubles!_

Or should I bury him between two trees and lay a stone as marker for his grave, a memento for what's apparently going to be perfect recall on my part? Can I even move him without... _breaking_ him any further? Why hadn't Alice seen this? Why hadn't she stopped him before I caught his scent? Or is this a lesson I'm supposed to learn the hard way? Orchestrated, so I can fit a leash around my monster with sharp teeth and deadly drool?

So many questions, so many thoughts, all too fast and too loud and yet if I reach out I can catch them all like the dust motes spinning in the sunlight, so _pretty_.

Still blood in my mouth. I want more. Did they replace the toothpaste while I burned? Will it help mask the taste, take my mind off it for a moment?

"Bella," Edward. His voice is nice. Clear as church bells at noon, all lilting and windchimes in the night. But he sounds... off. Sad to match the disappointed frown on his face. I should be more like that, shouldn't I?

I just killed a man. I shouldn't want another. And if he takes one more step toward me with his hand outstretched like I'm some rabid dog to tame and subdue _I'm gonna snap it clean off._


End file.
